"What do you mean, when you say 'angel'?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why do you call me that. What does that word mean to you?"

"You know what it means."

"Sometimes I think I do."

"It means dark thing. Because there's a violence to it. Because it's hard to see. Like looking at the body in the distance- the thing standing between the trees, with only the faint glow of the moon illuminating its face."

"You think angels are dark?"

"I think angels are mysterious. You know they're there, but that's it. You think you know what they are, what they look like, but you're incapable of grasping their image."

"So, what does that look like?"

"It looks like everything. And nothing. Total darkness, blinding light."

"Sounds.. overwhelmingly incomprehensible."

"That's why it looks like different things to different people. A woman, a man, the recurring nightmare from your childhood. Some people think it looks wrong. But to an angel, there is no wrong way to have a body."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I think an angel looks like a sword. Like the terrifying indifference of nature, and the undying, righteous rage of a person with a good heart. All and none, never wrong in their being."

"And this is what you call me?"

"Yes. This is what I call you.
My darling mystery. My dark thing.
My angel."

Hello, Thomas.


The night is waiting for you.


The gatekeeper scans the clothes decorating your figure.
The doors are opening.

Are you ready?

Here you are.
the music floods into you,
washing over you like a wave of colors you’ve never seen before-
rushing past you before you can examine them-
simultaneously melting away
and ripping god knows what away from you.
The experience feels new every time.
It’s a good feeling.
Breathe, and walk in.

This universe is tangled in stardust, in lights and movement.
The ground you walk on invisible,
existing only in vibrations,

mechanical pulse.

The place is littered with sounds- faint and drowning-
of hard breathing, occasional quiet moaning.
(Although they are felt more than they are heard.)
The scent of two hundred and fifty six sweating bodies,
all kinds of different smoke
and liquor;
not so much intoxicating as it is calming.

It’s full tonight.

The air spirals into you- fresh, clear, thin.
Sharp, but never painful;
your lungs full of the scented energy.
Faintly bitter, but never losing that distinct fruity essence.
Ah.
That’s what it is- forbidden fruit.
Toxic and irresistibly sweet.
Your teeth sink effortlessly into the soft surface,
it’s laughing on your tongue.

Candy-laced acid.
Stinging love bite.
Sweet poison,
like a slow french kiss tangled in the need for more.

You walk.

Your body brushes against worn leather,
warm skin.
You make your way through the bodies that feel more like a single entity than separate people (or people at all),
alive only through energy.
Hivemind of young souls.

(You move so slowly…
drink it in.)

If there is a god,
it exists in the body of the human.
As an unexplored force
corrupting the man-made man,
reverting them to pairs of hands that kiss the ground shamelessly,
to bodies that speak through groans and whimpers.
Primal angels.

If there is a god,
it is in this room tonight.

Where are you now?
Where have your slow steps taken you?

Ah.

A throne stands before you,
a familiar image.
The king is another tonight,
but the role of a spectator is almost equally as satisfying.

“King.” you think. “Ruler, but not of the people.”

He needs no servants
and your eyes are the only ones drinking in his figure,
as the others are too deep in trance, eyes glazed.
Dead, but with the essence of the living.
You observe them for a moment.

They are not bodies anymore- their souls having inhaled the life out of anything you can touch in a human.
You swear you can almost see through them,
the lights kissing, pressing the surface of their ghostly forms.
They’ve probably already been here for hours- unraveling,
evaporating into divine steam.

And what of the king?

He seems rather uninterested, or perhaps some combination of focused and relaxed.
He doesn’t move much. It’s a strange contrast, but not too strange-
it feels right, as though the young man, so unapologetic in his sole state of being,
makes the subtle nodding of his head appropriate, despite the violent nature of the beat.

The music is powerful, steady, reminiscent of your own passionate concentration when the throne is yours.
He’s a handsome fellow.
You chuckle at the thought, maybe you should stop staring now.

Oh.

Eye contact.


For an excruciatingly long moment, neither of you can tear your gaze away- (you are, after all, the only observer- this was inevitable.)
eyes locked on a stranger, reality submerged in the thick liquid that is this knot of sudden, unnamed emotions.
You are unsure if the pounding in your ears is the music or your heart that has leaped into your throat.

He turns his head slowly, still unable to tear himself away, trying to break free form your accidental and- completely unintentional- spell.
He manages to do so (it wasn’t easy),
fixating on the machine before him, his cheeks slightly flushed now.
The expression on his face unchanging.
(You don’t know it, but you’ve cursed him.)

Well, that was interesting.

What a powerful spectator you must be, to distract a king in such a way.

He hunches over the machine, cradling it with his chest and shoulders.
His left hand presses his left ear- the messenger whispering secrets to him;
the sounds that are to come.
He twists knobs with his right hand, clearing the path for the next song.
The track blends with the fading beat and becomes another.
Worlds colliding,
realities woven into one another.

Your shoulders drop,
the tenseness melting away with the melody encased in this secret universe you’ve entered tonight.

“Mmh…”

The music starts to get a hold of you.
You are beginning to submit to it’s voice, it’s demanding pleas.
It begs to be let into your body, to possess and consume you.
You are allowing it to drink away your free will.
There is little left.
You aren’t new to this- but again- it truly is a fresh experience every time.
And how intimate, the vibrations that seem to stroke, caress…
the sampled melodies who’s home you now hear being foreign to them– ‘till they become entwined,
one with their new world, through the love of the people.
And how strange, you think- to come from one universe, but belong in another.

You close your eyes, everything you are coiling around the music now,
and accept that this- here-
is the universe you belong in.

The room disappears along with your body.
Sensation and soul make up all you are.
The king has been observing you quietly,
he’s taken interest in you.

The more you move, the less aware he becomes of his hanging jaw.
His lips are parted only slightly, but his curiosity is evident.
You are impressing him.
The contrast between what he sees now and what he saw in your eyes just a moment ago-
it’s fascinating- how human you were, how familiar- a face in a crowd.
Yet now, how unrestrained, how pure and animalistic you’ve become.
He lets out a huff- eye brows knit together- in what seems like frustration.
He blinks a few times, his expression quickly changing to something like a half-worried look
that is secretly sheer ****** pleasure.
You are unraveling before him.

Thomas,
he’s found God in your movements.

Something of you now belongs to him,
but he doesn’t try to take it, and you don’t consciously give it.
It is a silent, intimate exchange you’ve unknowingly taken part of.

How untamed, what you’ve become.

You smile
as you feel yourself let go of everything you once were,
making it possible for the universe to do with you what it pleases.
You don’t know it, but in this state, the universe is not the only one able to take you,
touch and taste you,
breathe the language of sound into the crook of your neck.
Anyone can.
Anyone watching, that is.

Who’s watching you, Thomas?

It starts off small, like a perfect tasting cigarette, a pleasurable breath-
but soon becomes an overwhelming addiction
wrapped in the fear of having to stop.
You’ve unknowingly given yourself to the king.
He’s unwrapping you like a child dying to know what his christmas gift is,
so desperately and so quickly, that he hasn’t been able to register the event yet
and this translates to a breathless, low moan escaping his lips along with half of his soul
as he watches you, still too shocked by the foreign emotions to manage paying attention to anything
but the gracefully savage mystery before him.

His eyes are on you
and you are not consciously lending yourself to anyone willing to take you,
but here you are, shamelessly exposing yourself without showing an inch of skin.
Similar to the ghosts surrounding you,
save for the fluidity of your movements distinguishing you from the crowd.

His thoughts grow hotter the more your hips sway,
the questions melting into more intimate ones the deeper he goes:
What’s under your shirt?
What would it feel like, to have his hands there? Palming at your chest?
Is your skin warm right now?
Is it sensitive, Thomas?
Are you sensitive?
What shade of red paints your skin when too flustered to speak?
When you’re moaning a boy’s name?
And what would his name sound like
sliding down your tongue, dripping down your chin?
What sounds crawl up your throat when being crushed by repressed desire
like the kind crushing him right now?

Something like pure hatred forces his chest to tighten.
He’s secretly blaming you for the chaos banging the walls of his brain,
yet no part of him wants this to stop.
What he feels is some mixture of hatred and barely contained inhuman lust.
He’s panting now.
Christ, what have you done to the poor man?
You bare your teeth, as if sensing the king’s needy breaths.
You wear a look that he’s seen in lovers who chant his name in bed.
**** it.
The image is too sweet to ignore.

He is suddenly reminded of an old girlfriend.
She was so shy, always hesitant,
but that made the night they had spent together special, sweeter.
She had stripped, baring herself for the king,
all for him, all by herself.

(In a whisper, the words lick up your jaw-)
Just like you, Thomas.

“You’re such a ****; you’re so easy.” he’d whisper, commenting on how she had been waiting for him all day,
just so she could have him breathing commands into her,
making a barely coherent mess out of the girl.
(***** talk was reserved for special people, the times he’d speak during *** were rare, and words like those were to be considered a treasure.)
You are nearly as exposed as she.

“…****…”
he mouthes, not referring to old girlfriends anymore.
He wants you.

The eyes that have been tugging at your clothes, stealing you,
they blink twice,
what seems like interrupting confusion painted on the king’s face.
His head lowers in shame of admitting his desires,
but soon rises to resume watching his new reason to visit this haven.

It’s somewhat amusing-
you are so lost in ecstasy, you’ve yet to notice him
devouring your image,
silently storing the material you’ve provided him with;
celluloid images that steal the breath from his lungs.

The song is ending. His set is done.
“That’s enough.” he thinks, finally breathing,
trying to convince himself that he’s chosen to stop this behavior out of his own free will.
His face turns a lovely shade of pink, the embarrassment sinking in.
He cannot quite understand what’s happened, or how, for you were merely
a pair of eyes that locked on his for a little too long.
He wouldn’t doubt the idea that he’s been possessed, or cursed (or both)
had he been taught to be superstitious at all.
“He’s just a stranger…” thinks the king,
“king” no longer a suitable word for what the blushing boy has become.

As if on cue, another is ready to take his place.
It’s time to give up the throne, let another rule the night.
Packing his tools, he remembers your image and tries spotting you in the sea of dancers.
(They’re much more human now, becoming less transparent and more grounded in reality.)
He doesn’t find you.
Where have you gone to?

“…oui…ah- merci.”

You sit on a stool, back facing the swimming lights.
You were thirsty.
The cold inhabiting the glass is transferring to your palm.
The liquid hugs three ice cubes,
it’s only purpose being to coat your throat in something other than saliva.
(You don’t understand why your throat feels dry, what, is saliva not wet? Ugh.)
You fixate on the glass, stroking it slowly with your thumb.

At this angle, there is not enough light entering the glass to truly appreciate the color of the drink.
The lights pound on your back, like waves crashing on rock.
Your body casts a shadow directly over the glass.
The color and shade of it’s contents are a mystery to all but you;

Gold.

It looks lovely when kissed by sunlight,
although the times you’ve had this drink in broad daylight are few.
You have fonder, clearer memories of the liquid glistening under the moonlight, or drowning under muffled lights
like now.

You feel a sense of power over everyone there for a moment-
the lights, ever changing, hide the liquid’s true form;
it becoming a myth, shrouded in doubt.
At times it appears champagne pink.
Laurel green.
Dull, dying vermilion.
Mustard yellow bleeding into a powder blue.
It’s true beauty is a secret nobody in this universe knows of.

Indeed, Thomas.
Tonight, you are the only one who knows the beauty of gold.

An image comes to mind, sudden and powerful-
eyes of the king.
The thought pulls the breath out of you, your lungs empty for a moment.
You inhale shakily, shuddering at the feeling, but loving the memory.
Left. Right.
No one saw that. Good.

…Black and gold.
This sea of darkness, space.
Empty, soundless, but only when lost enough-
enveloped in the crowded, booming universe.

“Mm…”

In that brief encounter, something happened.
You can’t understand it,
but this doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
He was shining, you think, like the only star in a sea of black,
visible to none but you,
the only observer, his only spectator.
(The effects of the drink are settling in now,
the warmth nestling in your chest.
Loose and easy.)

Golden King.

Ruler of the night, star of your world.
Treasure, glistening with sweat.
Your treasure. Your secret. Yours.

“Mine…”

You don’t stop caressing the glass, it being held up in your left hand now, elbow resting on the counter.
You stare straight ahead, through the wall, into nothing, completely lost in thought.
Eyelids lowered in a confident, relaxed look.

Silver smile.
Gleaming, blooming before him.

What are you?- the words are silent in his mind
and he mouthes them without quite realizing it. (The movement is too subtle to notice.)
The king is seated next to you- wide-eyed- no doubt in some initial attempt to speak to you.
Mind-reading powers would be wonderful right now.
He doesn’t know what’s being unveiled before him, but it’s quite a sight-
you are unfolding into something he cannot fully appreciate, your thoughts a mystery to him.

“Oh…”
The shirt you’re wearing has short sleeves- a little too short.
Short and tight. It’s almost too small on you,
but no.
It only gives the boy a chance to better appreciate your skin.
(He doesn’t remember seeing you like this. There’s a jacket on your lap,
he assumes you took it off when you finished your… display.)
Soft skin.
He looks back at you, (deciding that your skin is not you- there’s more to you and he wants to see that.) your eyes.
Still lost in thought, still a mystery.
A warmth settles in him, a familiar feeling that’s usually induced by watching children play.
Hidden. Pleasantly amusing, delicate.

Delicate.
Beautiful, but in secret.
Moon flower, blooming only in the dead of night,
in it’s own private world.
He is not a part of that world right now,
but this makes your image all the more beautiful.

Distracting thoughts aside, the king truly does enjoy your current display (he almost thinks back to your other display from earlier,
and doesn’t, deciding this is much better).
It’s as if you’ve found the secret to stay forever young, he thinks
and remembers your dancing, what you became.

Divine steam.
The god in you evaporating into the bitter-sweet air.
Precious, eternal for tonight, young.
Forever lost in heaven’s labyrinth.

He hadn’t noticed, but you were speaking. To the bartender, most likely.
You turn and

oh-
oh god.
You’ve found each other.
He had forgotten that was a possibility.

(Golden star.
Silver lips.)

That’s him– that’s the king.
The very same you so confidently claimed as yours a few moments ago.
Did you say it aloud? Does he know?
It was just a fantasy, you think- trying to explain to him- to you- trying to convince someone that it’s not what it looks like.
You forget he can’t hear your thoughts, they bleed into the world and you actually begin speaking, trying to explain that no, christ, you don’t think he’s “yours” in any way.

“I–”

You don’t notice the absurdity of what you’re trying to do right now,
but nothing else comes out.
You are both simply lost in each other, speechless, shocked.
Someone has to breathe, and it’s him who does so first,
being the more lucid one right now.

“Is… is that real leather?”

What?

Your jacket, Thomas. He’s talking about your jacket.

Oh.

“Um… yeah.” You look down at it plainly, not sure of what exactly is happening right now,
then back at him.

There is an awkward pause, broken by a statement that can only be even more awkward,
or not. It’s soothing somehow, you think.

“I play here fridays and sundays at this same hour.”
He speaks holding his breath,
lest he drown in the moment.

Another pause.

“I’d…”
pause.
“like to see you again.”

You’

Survivors are often called monsters for what they are capable of doing.
If you called me a monster,
I would stand tall

and bare my teeth.

My eyes are closed. Time creases between my fingertips.
Do not come looking for me.

I don't want to be found.
I don't want to exist,
not now.

When I am finished,
when the stars return to my eyes,
when I call your name, breathless with the effort of disappearing,
then you may come.

You may hold me.

August cools us down. It brings us back from the lazy chaos, the dreamy haze of high summer. It asks us to lay down our learned lessons. Look at them carefully and gently. What has the heat shown you? What does your softened heart now know?

“I need to get ahold of myself” I say, scolding myself for wanting (and forgetting what I’m needing).

The warmth of your arm.
The love of a friend.

I am confused in my needing, my yearning;

I have dreamt of being on the floor, and you offering your arm to me.
Yes, how whole it must feel, to be cared for with love.
How warm it is in my dream.

Tenderness is your weeping, Love is in the wetness of your cheek, I have heard you begging yourself for the forgoing of your defenses. If love is the path you reach for, your legs only need walk it. My dear, abandon hardness. Become the light love is drawn to.

[...] and the greater the wound the greater the fang. And, when we experience trauma that is given to us by so many people, we find that we have become every one of them at once. In my body I hold every trauma. In my eye is all of theirs. In the eyes of God, I am an abomination.

Perhaps the most striking part of this trauma is how we grow fangs in response to being bitten.
I did not lick my wounds.
I became you.

I feel tired and small. Like I’ve disappointed you. You, who know nothing about me, except that I may have been good, but am now decidedly too small, too little, too little.
And how pathetic of me, to think any of me matters to you in this way. Yes, how small. How very small.

Who?

Who would come lay their hand on me
in the thickness of my confusion;
The thickness of my Love.

Will you offer your Hand to me
in my fog
And when home is lost to me
Will you tell me where it is?

Will you salt the wound that needs to sting before
it begins to heal,
Will you salt my wounds for me?

O mystery; Who will you be?
Will you Taste me and spit me out,
for fear of keeping a lukewarm thing in your mouth,
Your mouth, Steady with change.

Will you know I too am steady with change,
Will you know I too am an eager student?
Will you keep me in your mouth,
the days I am not burning and delicious?

Will you forget me
Will you let go of my hand
And forget me in the fog

I’m absolutely hopeless. I can’t say anything that matters with my mouth. Sometimes I can’t even write it, or say it with my eyes. Sometimes I think maybe I could say it with my hands. Maybe I could say something so tender, so terrifying and true, if you’d hold my hand. If you will, please pay attention to your fingers. I’ll write it there.

It all happened so fast. You were drowning in your epiphany, your discoveries, and now, you can't even feel the water that surrounds.

"This is too difficult." you think, as you try to feel again. The ocean you drown in now is not the one you want to die in. Wrong ocean.

You want to drown in information, feel the knowledge flooding your lungs, the insight drip down your legs, but it doesn't happen.

Instead, you stand in a desert, the reality of this never sinking in. You drown in an imaginary ocean.

Your heart beats fast as you hope the pills work. Something needs to pull you out of these fake waters, because you can't swim anymore.

It's almost hopeless; all you have is yourself and the distant voices that tell you they care. Thank god you always had trouble giving up.

Or not. You never believed in a god. You do, however, believe in yourself. "This water's no match for me." you think, crying. You're scared.

"It's fine." you say, holding up your fishbowl. "Consume improbability..." you whisper, remembering your own words. You stare at the glass.

"Become impossible" you had once said. If walking on dry land again was impossible, then that's exactly what you'd do. You eat the fishbowl.

You cry as you do so, the tears fall, reminding you there is no ocean. "You are not drowning, you are in dry land." You say.

You wonder what's going to happen next. You sit and wait, smiling. "It's okay. It's okay." you say to yourself. You cry some more.

It really is okay. It's scary, but it's okay. You're going to be fine.

It gives me so much joy, to look at you.
Sometimes it’s too much, and I worry.
Is it okay?
Is it okay to feel this much joy?

Is it joy?

I don’t dream of you like that anymore.
but if I did, what would you say?

I imagine it.
“It’s okay.”
I breathe. I smile. I know it isn’t for me.
The day is still bright.

I miss you. You, a mystery— You who are something in flames. You who are something risen from the waters. You, and you, violently winged and tender. I think of you and it isn’t you. I think of you and you are a memory underwater. A blurred face. Something in flames. You, and not. I miss you.